


Géants

by extremesoft



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: 2019 F1 season, Abusive Behavior, Again, Angst, Dubious consent in general, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, PWP, Sensory Overload, Smut, i'm so sorry about this, not recommended for anyone wanting to have a good time!, seriously it's borderline non-consent but not quite but, some kind of established fuckery arrangement, what in the name of jeepers have I done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 22:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremesoft/pseuds/extremesoft
Summary: He thought Charles a giant and now Charles seems smaller than in all of the times they have ever shared. He thought himself a giant and now feels reduced to smaller than ever by the one with whom he used to battle what they have become.





	Géants

**Author's Note:**

> First things and warnings and all that first: this is quite ugly in multiple ways and the precious cutiepie boys seriously aren't doing anything nice here, as the tags might foreshadow. The levels of forcing and enduring the forcing are quite, uh, on the limits of tolerable, and the consent does somewhat exist but it certainly isn't explicitly expressed. So if these are things that might distress or trigger you in any, any way, then please be careful if you still decide to read this despite the tags and this warning, okay? And take care of yourself, btw ❤️ (though that applies to all of you who read, even if you proceed to read this without a care in the world!)
> 
> Now. I have no explanation for this or excuses for myself, and even the fact that this is my first non-prompted non-Maxiel work here doesn't make this, err, nicer. :S But I got a comment to my drabbles that suggested that I could perhaps try writing something with Pierre and Charles again. The one short thing I've written (and a good amount of works about this pairing in general :D) was indeed sweeter and softer than cotton candy, and somehow I got to wondering whether I could do something fouler with the two. They are now playing in the big boys' league, after all, but not without their issues. So (with some vague bad feels waiting to be worked through and the free time granted by a massive cold) I got down to work, and the end result was... apparently this absolute pile of horror. Oh dear jeepers me, again. This can be read as an aftermath of either Bahrain or China, I think this pretty much suits both.
> 
> Content warnings for exploiting italics and horrible makeshift French do also apply! I would like to thank _chère_ higgsbosonblues once again for being an irreplaceable help by patiently combining her patchy French with my horrible makeshift French when I couldn't count on my otherwise trustworthy online dictionary getting my meaning :) :) But I haven't made anyone proofread all, so if you do happen to spot mistakes in the small bits in French, you're free to point them out! :) The translations can be found in the notes at the end (except for the title, which is of course "giants" in French).
> 
> Oh lord. After all this I do hope that you, my dear reader, enjoy this, or at least endure this. Let me know in any way if you do! And if this makes you want to punch me, let me know that as well :') ❤️

Charles carries on his shoulders the aura of a defeated king - a superhero, Pierre thinks then, robbed of his powers and slayed to his knees like a deer with an arrow through its leg - when they finally meet after the race and Pierre finds himself unfamiliarly afraid to try and touch. 

The beginning of the year has not been smooth, not for either of them or for _them_ as a concept. Pierre wouldn't trade the golden chances given to them for anything in the world (what a ludicrous thought for someone filled with beast-like hunger for triumph like him and the rest of the twenty!) but there are glitches in time when he catches himself lamenting the simple thing they were before and mourning the simplicity of it having grown an inkling frailer. They faced giants, he reminisces with his mouth twitching on its own accord. They fought again and again, they won and lost again and again, they shared it with each other again and again and they promised each other to return victorious again and again. Eager hands carding through ruffled messes of hair, breathless kisses taking flight from necks and shoulders, skin against skin and wild, willing trust marking all.

Now _they_ are the giants and Charles even more so, realizes Pierre as he witnesses Charles’s foreign unwillingness to recognize his presence in any way. They are fought against, won and lost against, they have turned into what they battled, and the battle has lingered on them and slithered inside them through whatever fissure it has been able to find.

It scares him. He wouldn’t want to let it but there is no stopping it from doing so. It scares him more than he could have thought possible in his fever-kissed, joyous life. Pierre has his eyes on Charles and his being not two metres away from him yet it feels like it would take crossing an ocean to get to the other side of their distance. Charles has his eyes on the floor and his being not two metres away from Pierre’s yet he is far away, a galaxy between them, dimming Charles with a muddle of blackness and stripes of stars.

“Charles”, Pierre calls nevertheless, hoping for his voice to float across storm and wave and to the shore that is Charles. “ _Je suis désolé_ , Charles.”  
“ _Ne pas_ -” starts Charles and stops in the middle of it and seems to drift nearer and farther and nearer and farther. Pierre swallows and forgets whatever it was he was about to say in front of the sudden flare. He has never felt this _blank_ with Charles. And Charles still can’t look at him when he mutters “just don’t say a word.”

Charles must have had his share of comforting words and condolences spilled over him already, Pierre reasons quietly, more than enough for him to drown in them. A side of him understands and coils tightly around the feeling of empathizing with Charles; but anger still flares on an other side like he sees it flaring in front of him. What has _he_ done to Charles or to his engine, or to his troublesome position in the team, that gives Charles the right to suddenly shove him away like an old toy he has lost interest in? How far above him does Charles think he is now? Does Charles think it has been easy for him in any way either - trying with all his might to settle into a new opportunity with a new team and a new car _with_ a new engine, and still struggling, and still failing, and feeling all of the hopes and expectations for any true success slipping away and getting pinned on his teammate, and him only?

Pierre takes a deep breath in to try and calm his nerves like he has been told to do, tries to ignore how hard his heart is hammering inside him, against the skin of his chest, tries to ignore the smouldering ember of hidden crossness. _He is not thinking about you now and it is perfectly understandable_ , he tells himself. Charles doesn’t understand _now_. Not with his proud head bent down by the merciless powers of the universe itself and his shoulders quivering under the weight of everything he is made to carry. But he will understand sooner or later, once Pierre only finds a way of getting through.

Pierre takes two steps closer and lifts his hand carefully and Charles’s head snaps up as if Pierre had startled him. Pierre stops still - it’s a twisted pantomime they are performing now, a game of mirrors, Pierre freezing with his other foot slowly lowering to meet the floor mid-step and his hand still lifted in an awkward angle, as if he had suddenly been trapped in a renaissance painting. He is only vaguely aware of how heavily he is breathing and he falls under hypnosis as he tries to gauge what’s in front of him: Charles’s chest heaves with bursts of air, sinks and rises like a rampant wave, his eyes are blue and impenetrable and furious in a way Pierre doesn't recognize. An eternal, edgeless sea of tiredness and anger has washed over Charles and left him a wreck. They say nothing and somehow Pierre is not entirely sure whether Charles truly even sees him - whether Charles is looking at him or through him.  
“Do you want me to leave?” he stutters with his mouth scorched to sand.

Then Charles suddenly moves as an answer and Pierre doesn’t have the time to get relieved or alarmed or more worried or anything at all before the spaces between them are swept away and Charles’s fingers clench tightly around the collar of his shirt. _Charles_ , Pierre wants to gasp, _Charles, qu'est-ce qu’il y a?_ , but Charles gives him chances for nothing at all when he slams his mouth against Pierre’s and both bites and licks his way past Pierre’s lips to deepen the violent touch. Pierre complies out of habit, opens his mouth for Charles to use with his own, his breathing against Charles’s ragged and laborious all of a sudden. It’s nothing new for either of them, being angry, being rough, taking each other’s breath away, laying on the other things that are wrong and unjust in the other’s world and feeling them vanish. But the way in which this time is different properly dawns to Pierre as Charles then pushes him against the nearest wall with unbalanced steps first and then a loud thump as Pierre’s back and the back of his head encounter it.

Charles still hasn’t let go of Pierre’s collar and it’s a noose now, loosely tied, slyly tightening. Pierre lifts his hand from Charles’s upper back to his umber hair, grabs ample fistfuls of it, tugs at it lightly to catch Charles’s attention and return him to the reality he is clearly trying to avoid.  
“Charles”, he manages to breathe once Charles uncoils the fingers of his right hand and his mouth moves from Pierre’s to mindlessly try and bite his jaw. Charles is pressed against Pierre so tight it’s impossible for him not to notice when Charles tilts his hips back to give his right hand just enough room to snake between their bodies and starts to fervently fumble his trouser button open. It _puzzles_ Pierre - as if they hadn’t ever fucked, taken and given. But the level of harshness has never been this and Charles has never been _wordless_. Pierre tries tentatively to lean his weight against Charles but all the hours spent at the gym are now nullified by Charles’s fury, all the inflammable power in his sharpened muscles is rendered futile by the heavy weight of Charles’s body shackling him against the wall.  
“What are you-”  
“ _Please_ shut up”, spits Charles against his earlobe and crowns the words with a bite that makes Pierre gasp with the stinging pinch. “I’ve heard enough words already”, he growls against Pierre’s shoulder as he finally finishes fumbling with the button with a frustrated grunt and tears his zipper open with haste.

 _He needs something like this, it's been rough for him_ , repeats Pierre to himself as the artless sound of Charles’s fly being opened seems to suddenly be enough to puncture his eardrums. _Let him_. It’s like a lullaby, _let him, let him_ , he hums it to himself and then Charles lets go of his collar and his weight moves from him and he still doesn’t feel freed.  
“Suck me”, orders Charles, having left the edges of his patience behind long ago, his voice hiding layers of metal in it.  
“We could take-” _it slower_ completes Pierre the helpless plea in his head before Charles’s fingers lace themselves amidst the bronze and copper of his hair, paint themselves with delicate streaks of it and then capture it in a sudden chokehold that makes Pierre’s knees buckle with uncertainty. He puts his palms flat on Charles's chest as a reflex but beats back the urge to push because it's _cher Charles_.  
“ _Please_ ”, hisses Charles and Pierre hears the elusive verge of tears looming in his voice. Pierre is torn, shredded by the pain of Charles pulling his hair and the pain of the two suddenly being reduced to this, the agony of trusting Charles but not his despair. “Could you not talk?”

And Pierre gives Charles as deep a nod as he can with Charles’s fist bound tightly in his hair and steadily forcing him to kneel like a servant before a ruler. A defeated king made all the more relentless by his aimless rage, an inobedient subject being punished for nothing in particular. Pierre lowers himself as slowly as Charles’s hand steering him down lets him and there is odd dream-likeness to it all, really, tinting everything and making it smudged. _He won’t hurt you_ , explains Pierre to himself again as he dares to butterfly his fingers on Charles’s hips and Charles shudders under the touch. _You can save the talking for later_ , he concludes while he trails his hands down Charles’s sides as he sinks and then stops once his knees bump against the laminate floor. It’s ruthlessly hard and feels strangely cold despite Pierre wearing jeans, but Pierre forgets it, braces himself against Charles’s thighs with one hand and pulls his trousers out of the way with the other. He would tease - the image of lavishly mouthing Charles’s _delicious_ cock through his obscenely stretching, soaked boxers is solid in his mind, _it would make him feel even better_. But Charles is in no mood for anything more refined and he duly helps Pierre to get to the fucking point of this all by pulling his boxers down himself without uttering anything.

Pierre bites his lip now to stay silent as wished. He stifles a pleased sigh at the pornographic sight before him, he gulps back all of the praises he usually keeps reserved for this kind of occasions. _You are gorgeous, chèri, you taste so good_. He glances up and the moment he reaches Charles's eyes with his own they escape him as Charles looks up, up to the ceiling and through, into the skies and beyond into space, away from Pierre. Pierre swallows hard and the burdensome weight his stomach has suddenly become swivels with need. He wants Charles to look, to let him know he is still there _with_ him.  
“Charles”, Pierre tries yet again and it is so feeble this time it doesn't feel like anything he just said himself. He wraps his fingers around the base of Charles's length and his hand shivers, and he brings his lips as close to the tip as he can without touching before exhaling _regarde moi_ in an equally shivering voice.

Charles does. He gazes down and then Pierre can't bring himself to pause to take a closer look at everything that suddenly isn't there to be seen. He closes his eyes instead in subconscious aversion and doesn't think about how they weren't able to tear their eyes off each other at other times. He gives Charles only a small lick of his tongue first, like a tentative kiss on the torn knuckles of his sovereign, before circling the slit and the round crown in earnest with it and lapping the leaking pre-come greedily, trying to prove his worth.  
“Yes, Pierre, _fuck_ ”, falls from Charles’s mouth on Pierre, _words!_ , snowflakes that melt into a glimmer in his hair. Pierre looks up again with Charles’s cock on his tongue and sees Charles’s head tilting back, hears his breathing quickening and hitching abruptly when Pierre’s lips lightly embrace the tip. _He feels good, that’s good_. “Don’t stop, _n'arrête pas_.”

The smile that lights Pierre’s head and heart for a moment is irrational and pure and he slides his hands on Charles’s buttocks to support them both when he takes Charles further. Charles’s legs tense and he moans breathily, it gets cut short when Pierre hollows his cheeks and pulls slowly back, Charles fumbles for Pierre’s hair again and grips it with one hand first when Pierre’s mouth leaves his cock with a vulgar smack. The air on Pierre’s lips escapes him when he flinches at the round-edged pain - 

\- _keep going, n'arrête pas_

and he has to focus on taking another breath in and relaxing his jaw before he gets to work again, this time taking almost all of Charles, straight as far as his physique allows. He has of course sucked Charles before and now finds comfort in the familiarity of _that_ feeling despite it making him gag ever so barbarously. Charles’s cock tastes like it always has tasted, the veins of it trace paths they have always traced, its subtle arch meets and blends with the groove of Pierre’s tongue seamlessly, like it has always blended. _It’s meant_ flashes to Pierre’s haze, _he still needs you_. Pierre lets loose a lewd groan that vibrates against the slick length in his mouth, enhancing the effect of his generous services. Charles tugs his hair with both hands now and Pierre blurredly registers how hard Charles pulls and how much it hurts somewhere beyond the extremities of his arousal and confusion.  
“Faster”, chokes Charles and Pierre can feel his hips jerking against the pressure of his palms. “Fuck, Pierre.”

Pierre’s jaw keeps clenching and he keeps trying to undo the clench and finds it harder with Charles’s other hand firmly taking a place on the back of his head. Charles has never been this way, this coarse and pitiless and unequal to him, and it keeps escaping Pierre what Charles is about to use him for until he feels the first thrust, slow yet persistent, sliding against his lips and palate.

Pierre stifles a moan of initial shock and tries to grant Charles as much resistance as he can with both his tongue and neck muscles. He is so short of air already as it is, oh god, it’s hard for him to breathe when it feels like Charles is filling all of him to the point of overflow with nothing but annihilating despair, but he tries to remember to breathe through his nose and slacken his jaw and breathe through his nose and slacken his jaw. _Let him let him let him_ he urges himself when the blunt tip spears its way to the back of his mouth and makes him almost retch now. _He needs something like this, it’s been rough for him_ he repeats in encouragement and consolation to himself when Charles thrusts harder the second time and Pierre feels the saltwater in the corners of his burning eyes. He wants to want it and decides that he does, just as much as Charles.

Pierre keeps unknowingly clinging to Charles’s trouser legs now, curling and uncurling his fingers around the fabric and the concreteness of it anchoring him to place, growing senseless and limp with the sheer abundance of everything Charles makes and doesn’t make him feel yet battling the urge to fall from his trembling knees. Charles is fucking his mouth with short, steady snaps of his hips now, gasping to the rhythm, being wordless to the rhythm. And Pierre sinks himself into the same rhythm, tries to keep his trained neck stiff and his tongue up for Charles to rut against as he pleases, tries to keep himself from gagging excessively because it might ruin the scene, tries to steer himself away from the brink of vomiting whenever Charles throws him there. He can feel his own cock aching and pounding against the confinements of his jeans and can barely fathom it himself through his distorting numbness, how his body can be so unbelievably selfish on its own.

“ _Dieu_ ”, Charles grunts into the thin air between him and Pierre, eyes squeezed shut and his breathing raspy and uneven. “ _Proche, si proche-_ ”

Pierre can vaguely sense Charles’s thighs clasping and his body turning nervous in a familiar way that foreshadows his approaching, incomprehensible peak. His chin and cheeks feel filthy with a coating of saliva and Charles’s slick and stray tears, his body is burning with lust and frozen with disbelief at the same time and he thinks he is vacillating on the edges of his very sanity at moments when he feels Charles’s tightening cock feverishly ramming his mouth and thinks _do you think he wants to come in your mouth or on your face_ in all seriousness.

And all of the charge in Charles’s muscles then culminates in one blink of an eye as he spills in Pierre’s mouth with an almost pained wail, a sob that bounces back from the wall behind Pierre. Pierre can’t help his primal instincts and bodily functions any longer once Charles’s come blocks his throat, he can’t get air and he flattens his hands on Charles’s thighs again, this time giving him a weak shove before collapsing into a coughing, retching, sweaty ruin on all fours, Charles’s softening length grotesquely slipping out of his mouth and the viscous mixture of saliva and Charles’s come smearing his face and blotching his jeans. Charles’s shaky breaths fall on him and gently stroke his tangled hair.

Pierre is mortified and can’t fix his gaze on anything but his own hand supporting his weight. His unbearable arousal and consuming humiliation twirl in him and mix into a grey mass, and he can’t make out which is which after a while of their endless movement. He sits listlessly back against the wall and wipes the corner of his sore mouth with the back of his free hand; then he wipes his cheek and doesn’t feel any cleaner. Air moves in and out of him in panicked, uncontrolled explosions.

Then Charles tumbles to his knees in front of him, legs shaking so badly Pierre swears he can almost feel the tremors traveling to him across the floor. He is not sure whether to look. He has never been unsure whether to look at Charles. _Cher Charles_. Near and so far.  
“Pierre”, whispers Charles and places a light touch of his hand on Pierre’s bicep. Pierre quivers involuntarily and his eyes burn and he is still not sure whether to look -  
“Pierre”, repeats Charles with the broken voice of a broken boy that once was golden, doesn’t move his hand to guide Pierre to face him. The touch is warm and flickers to the belligerent beats of his heart. “ _Désolé, précieux, désolé, je suis vraiment désolé._ ”

Pierre looks up. Charles’s face is flushed red and his pink-rimmed eyes glow with tears that have already overflowed and slashed his cheeks with crystal. Pierre is not sure whether to give in and cry with him.  
“I am so sorry”, stammers Charles yet again, now in utter horror before his doings. Pierre can’t make himself speak and makes him watch instead, trying to return himself to himself and Charles to Charles. Charles’s chest still heaves, sinks and rises like a rampant wave, his eyes are still blue and impenetrable in a way Pierre doesn't recognize; but the fury has abandoned him after gorging him to the bone and left the eerie whiteness of his skeleton behind.  
“I- I can’t do all this-”

Charles still hasn’t dared to lay his fingers on Pierre’s cheek. Pierre brings his own to lightly brush the hand Charles still has on his arm and sees Charles’s chin trembling. Charles’s throat keeps tightening and Pierre knows he is compulsively trying to swallow back a cry.

He thought Charles a giant and now Charles seems smaller than in all of the times they have ever shared. He thought himself a giant and now feels reduced to smaller than ever by the one with whom he used to battle what they have become. And Pierre does see in Charles what is in him as well - a proud head bent down by the merciless powers of the universe itself and his shoulders quivering under the weight of everything he is made to carry. They are both the seconds, still. Yet. And that is where they are equals, still. Yet.  
“You can, _chéri_ ”, he says, bleak and hoarse. His mouth feels spent, unwilling to obey him and let the words come but he has enough of his stubbornness left to forge them and force them out. His tears force themselves out on their own accord, without him fully knowing it. “We both can. Not like this, but we can. _Avoir la foi._ ”

Pierre gradually relents and gives in to Charles carefully pulling him closer, he gives in to Charles’s warm arms around him, stripped of their strength and vibrating against his shoulders. And he gives in and cries with Charles when he feels and hears Charles being taken over by the torrential sobs he has hopelessly fought and now yields to, his body bending with them and his tears leaving dark spots on Pierre’s shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> Je suis désolé = I'm so sorry, je suis vraiment désolé = I am truly sorry/really sorry  
> Ne pas = Do not  
> Qu'est-ce qu’il y a? = What's the matter?  
> Regarde moi = Look at me  
> N'arrête pas = Don't stop  
> Proche = close, si proche = so close  
> Avoir la foi = Have faith  
> Dieu = God, cher = dear, chèri = darling/dearest, précieux = precious/dear


End file.
